That Time I Went on a First Date and the Guy Took His Monkey Out

After dating all of the Jewish men in San Francisco, I moved to the Big Apple only to find monkey business.

Illustration by Sophie Goldstein

How I wish I could attribute my arrival in New York to noble motives—the Muse, for instance, calling me to a life of creativity. My inner savior, propelling me toward a lifetime commitment to the urban poor. But no, I came for one reason: to find a husband.

I’d been living in San Francisco. There are some straight, Jewish men in San Francisco, and I dated all three of them. There was the programmer who took me on our first date to a club—a sex club. The drummer, who confessed he’d never invited me over because he was sleeping in the park until his roommate “chilled out.” The architect, who canceled a date so he could attend a session with his past-lives guru. Lovely men … different priorities. Truth was, I was not a California gal. I’d left my Massachusetts hometown to find myself, and here I was, same east-coast shnook, just sporting do-rags instead of Dockers. Sitting at a drag show one night, I watched my work colleague lip-synching on stage, and it h…